


(sometimes) love is not enough

by Death_inspiresme



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Consensual Sex, Dark Tony Stark, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Explicit Sex, Pining, Pining Tony Stark, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 19:36:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14600232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Death_inspiresme/pseuds/Death_inspiresme
Summary: 'After all, this is the finishing line, isn't it? The race, the whole ordeal--tipping on the edge of ragged cliffs, teetering dangerously over huge gaping chasms, toeing the fine line-- everything led to this.'





	(sometimes) love is not enough

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try my hand at writing dark shit and I don't know it just turned out a price of stinking crap
> 
>    
> *the 'dubious consent' in the tags is because Peter is underage in some parts of the story, and is unable to consent but no underage sex happens.*

 

   Their first time together was, for the lack of a better word, unceremonial. And who can blame them, after all the buildup-- months and years and every minute that ticked by, every sideways glance. Tony doesn't know what he's expecting; and, looking down at swimming sunset eyes and quivering lips, he knows they both have no clue. And yet they move boldly against each other, firm hands sliding under shirts, bodies molding fluidly; all an act.

   After all, this is the finishing line, isn't it? The race, the whole ordeal--tipping on the edge of ragged cliffs, teetering dangerously over huge gaping chasms, toeing the fine line-- everything led to this.

    _This_ , the two of them in a crappy motel room, air thick with the faint smell of soap and dew and the memories of previous travellers. The floorboards creaked under their feet as they collided into their very first kiss, stiff and jerky.

   So no, their first time together wasn't fireworks and fizzling sparks, wasn't akin to the first intake of breath after holding your head underwater for a solid five minutes. It was, in the most perverse manner, _good_ \-- amazing, even, an inexplicable feat concomitance to the whole 'genius-billionare-playboy-philanthropist' thing Tony has going for him. But it was something else altogether, to have a young eager boy spread out under him on artificially crisp bed sheets, naked and blushing and looking up at him as though Tony had hung all the stars in the universe and arranged the whole solar system. It was something else, having wide-child eyes watch you oh so reverently, bony fingers digging into the stiff blankets and creating indents in the mattress; slender limbs mirroring his own confident movements with the fragile hesitancy of a newborn fawn. It was something else; Peter Parker was something else.

* * *

 

 

   "Gorgeous," Tony hummed into the dimness of the room. Bright glassy eyes stare back at him.

   "I'm... I'm still, I mean, I'm not--"

   Peter isn't a lot of things. He's a teenager, who's just turned seventeen. He's a Star Wars nerd. He's an A-plus student, a prodigy. He's a high school graduate. But he isn't a lot of things.

   "You're beautiful," Tony replied, like a promise. "You're you."

   Then he dipped his head between the curve of sharp hipbones, hands gripping cold kneecaps, and reduced Peter to an incoherent mess.

* * *

 

  
   He doesn't know when it first hit him, square in the chest like a cruel punch to the lungs, what it all meant to him; though it honestly shouldn't have been that much of a surprise. Since when does Tony Stark abide by the law? He couldn't care less-- frankly couldn't give two shits-- about it.

    _ **Age of consent, New York City: Seventeen.** _ The words blinking bold and black on the computer screen, unwavering, almost seemingly mocking the fact that he's searching it up in the first place at 3 in the morning, whatever remains of whiskey in his flask in a trembling hand, room reeking of bitter vomit.

   Who cares about age of consent? It was the wait, the chase, that enticed him. The forbidden yearning, the dangerous game they both play.

   Tony had always been attracted to the idea of danger.

  Sometime last month Peter started to bring lollies with him-- completely disregarding the 'no food in the lab, I'm looking at you, Parker' rule-- spending the whole day bent curiously over a particularly difficult test question, or Tony's newest invention; plush lips wrapped around the hard candy, staining his tongue rainbow colors.  
  
"Mr. Stark," he'd ask, said tongue running around the glistening surface of a strawberry-lollipop, mouth sticky with syrup, voice lilted sweet. "I don't really understand this."

   ...Which is bullshit. Peter understands this more than he does; maybe even enough to beat him in his own game. Tony would fantasize yanking the white plastic stick out from between red pouty lips, suckling on that cute pink tongue, licking artificial sweetener from inside of the child's mouth. Heartbeat thrumming in his ears, chest pressed to Peter's back, breath fanning across his shoulder, Tony'll say, "That's all basic thermonuclear astrophysics, Peter. Get that wrapper off the workbench, will you?"

   Peter would turn to give him an apologetic glance, pink lips turned down around a lollipop stick. "Sorry, Mr. Stark, I didn't mean to make a mess."

   "This is, what, your third one today? Cavities, Parker. Go easy on the candy."

    To which the boy had smiled, "well, I can't resist anything sweet."-- So innocent, so perfect; so confusing.

    Peter Parker was a puzzle. Tony wasn't big on puzzles; he remembers a 800 piece set his mother had gotten for his birthday, all those years ago. Howard had pressed his lips together and branded it a waste of time, then asked him how his unfinished engine was going.

   Tony said he was nearly there.

   Howard only nodded.  
  
   Of course he did, in the end, successfully build a working engine-- his very first one, that earned him a stiff pat on the head and a 'well done'-- but he never did quite get around in solving the puzzle. And he's not entirely sure if he solved this one yet, either. Like that time they were working over the Spider-suit, arms brushing, curls of soft berry-scented hair tickling Tony's chin as Peter leant forward to adjust the last of the faulty wiring. Tony swallowed. Peter pulled back with a satisfied hum, dragging the orange lolly out from between his lips with an absolutely _obscene_ pop.

 _"I'd give you something bigger to suck on."_ It was just a mutter under his breath, barely there, but the boy's sensitive ears picked it up. Tony completely hadn't expected the little gasp of surprise, hadn't expected Peter to stare wordlessly at him, blushing so hard the older man could practically feel the heat radiating off his face. Meek brown eyes ducking away to stare at the worktable, Peter shot him such a painfully shy smile that Tony wondered if the boy even knew what he was doing.

   That would leave him flat out drunk that night, bitter guilt (and liquor) clawing painfully like hellfire up his belly, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. God, why had he done that? That was wrong. Wrong, wrong. You're fucked up, Tony. Peter was just eating candy. He shouldn't have said anything, shouldn't have assumed, the boy was just enjoying his lollipop. That's all.

   The next day Peter brought in a cherry-swirled lollipop so huge his cheeks bulged around it as he sucked and licked enthusiastically, slurping around the side; acting as if nothing had happened.

* * *

 

   Peter comes beneath him with a quiet gasp, spilling sticky between his thighs, a picture-perfect fantasy. Just like Tony had imagined, down to the pretty flush coloring Peter's cheeks, the little ' _oh_ ' that slips past his lips; hips stuttering as he rides out the last of his pleasure. Hazy unfocused eyes blink up at him.

   "Sorry," the boy says, breathless. "I'm sorry, you haven't..."

   "Don't apologize, there's no rush. We have all the time we need."

   Peter dips his head, still embarrassed, and Tony buries his nose into sweat-matted curls of hair, breathes in the precious little thing. He reaches for the bottle of lube on the nightstand.

* * *

 

  
   The truth is that he's been waiting for this, for all these years. It's a cold truth, one that registers painfully clear in the dark of the night, when he's on his fifth glass of wine, drunk out of his mind and hating himself more than ever. That's when Tony feels the most, all the anger and self-loathing and raging frustration.

   The guilt, surprisingly, never comes when he's sober. Never came when Tony pressed his lips against the hollow of Peter's neck that evening in the elevator of the Stark Tower, the kid's school backpack in between them; only their heavy drag and intake of breaths filling the silence. Never came when Aunt May had invited him over to their apartment for dinner, and he'd excused himself to go jerk off in their bathroom after seeing Peter in a loose grey sweatshirt, hair still dripping wet from a shower.

   After dinner, May walked him to the door and thanked him for looking out for her nephew, taking such good care of Peter; tears in her eyes, a huge warm smile on her face as she hugged him gratefully.

   Tony drove home-- he awoke in pain the next day on his kitchen floor, to angry crimson marks along his blood-sticky arm and bloody battered knuckles, shards of broken beer bottles scattered around him.

* * *

 

   Fingers gripping onto the bedsheets tightly, little hiccups falling from his lips, the boy lays there, allowing Tony to take whatever he wanted. He's perfect. Tony enters him slow and gentle, murmuring comforting words to his ear, "it's okay, baby. I've got you. Shh."

   A tear slips down Peter's cheek-- Tony kisses it away.

* * *

 

  
   It's illicit, ineffably wrong. And that's what makes it all what it is, isn't it? The tabooness of waiting for a child to be of legal age, the backdrop of their sickening play; invisible puppet strings woving them together. The whole _desiring_ effect of everything.  
  
   Had he anticipated this from the very beginning, since he had met Peter for the first time, on that couch? He'd like to think not, though he could already sense the danger of having chocolate-warm eyes gaze upon him with such wonder and worship. It was only after Peter had stripped on the building rooftop that chilly evening after the ferry incident-- the suit slipping away from thin shoulders to reveal pale beautiful skin, dressed in nothing else but a pair of blue boxers; sun setting on Peter's darkening blush, pink lips trembling ever so slightly-- that Tony registered something different; an almost animalistic need surfacing in the dark recesses of his mind.

* * *

 

  
   Gripping narrow hips, teeth scraping over jutting collarbones, Tony fucks him into the stiff mattress; giddy with the thought that he's the first to see Peter like this, the first to mark him up and claim him. Soon soft moans turn into rapid gasps, and fingernails press crescents onto the skin of his back.

   "T--tony, please, please." Begging so prettily, Peter gazes at him even now with childish reverence, so eager. " _Please_."

   "Fuck, Peter, you're so gorgeous, look at you, you're so good--" he gasps back, and then he's coming, blindly reaching down to jerk Peter to completion.

   The teen comes for the third time that night with " _yesyesyes_ " and " _Tony_ " falling from his lips, and he hopes Peter commits every single second of this to memory.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   A week later, after everything, after leaving the boy sleeping on the motel bed to wake up alone the next morning, after ignoring all the texts and calls, Tony knows it's time to face the truth.

_"Sir, Mr. Parker is here."_

   Heart slamming against his ribcage, eyes squeezed shut, Tony hears Peter walk over to him, the scuffing of his shoes across the linoleum floor of the lab.

   "Tony?"

   He looks up, empty bottle in hand, drunk out of his mind.

   He looks at Peter, and he feels nothing.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me happy :)


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